How much of our fragmented memories can we trust? What semblance of truth do they offer when other people offer differing accounts as to what we can remember or recount from an urge to have a grasp of our identity? Those are some of the ethereal questions surrounding Carla Simón’s semi-autobiographical drama, Romería, a film bursting with specters of a past that feels distant and far-removed from Marina Piñeiro’s (Llúcia Garcia) confusing reality.
Simón’s film is mostly inspired by the writer/director’s own life, in which her parents died when she was young, and shares an inkling of Simón’s debut film, Summer 1993 (2017), of a young girl acclimating to her new life with her aunt and uncle in the aftermath of her mother’s death. Both efforts feel like coming to terms not just with who Simón is, but also with her parents and what became of them in the final moments of their lives. Romería plays like a mystery of uncovering the past and perceptions of our parents, but is rooted in a heartfelt, poetic affirmation of living a passionate, adventurous life.
In 2004, 18-year-old Marina wants to apply for a scholarship to study cinema at university, but runs into a red-tape hiccup when she is told she is not listed on her father’s death certificate. With a camcorder in hand, her mother’s diary entries from 1983 (narrated by her mother throughout the film), and the beautiful, sunlit oceanic views of Vigo, Marina sets off to meet with her estranged family on her father’s side.
She’s guided by her supportive uncle Lois (Tristán Ulloa), his wife and family, and their houseboat, as Marina meets various family members on the island and comes to understand the grey areas that scar her memory of her father.
It’s a dizzying whirlwind that recalls when you were young and had to meet older folks for the first time. There’s a reserved shyness and quietness Marina displays, yet she exudes a warm, friendly welcome and open trust in their hospitality. Even when she meets other teens of her age, who offer weed and alcohol to relax and enjoy themselves, she denies any interest.
She soaks in not just the lovely sunshine, but the atmosphere and behaviors everyone exhibits once they surround her. How do they feel about her presence? Does her father’s family like her or do they wish her to be gone? Is her aunt lying when she contradicts Marina’s understanding of her dad dying in 1992, instead of 1987? What were the reasons why her father never visited her when she lived with her mother’s family?
Simón’s filmmaking, aided by beautiful work by cinematographer Hélène Louvart, creates a hazy, transportive look at a family that has flourished within their radiant environment, yet hasn’t moved forward with how to deal with the impact of Marina’s father. The gorgeousness of Vigo almost emphasizes the transfixing allure of going back to your parents’ past that’s unfamiliar to you, yet holds a deep connective weight in your heart.
The film never strays from Marina’s perspective, and often her reluctance to fully embrace the fun antics of her rebellious cousins or luxuriating in the peace and harmony of being with family. Marina’s mind is solely directed toward digging beneath the surface of pleasantries, and while some scenes linger in the stillness and processing of new information, Simón’s marvelous, subtle direction focuses on Marina’s comprehension and internal growth.
Garcia’s performance is exquisite. Teetering on the line between introspective and emotionally evocative, Garcia’s Marina is never aloof. Though the overwhelming nature of the situation can make her seem lost and adrift, there’s an emotional anchor to her journey that’s meditative and transformative. The scenes in which she has to understand her connection to lost family members, who seem to have more of a connection to her than she does to them, punctuate the immense pain and strangeness for this young adult uncovering her past.
Often, she approaches every scene with some optimism about discovery and curiosity, yet leaves each one more yearning for answers and puzzled by each new piece of information about her parents. It’s compelling work from a relative newcomer, especially when tasked to embody the more complex meta aspects of the narrative.
One striking scene involves Marina meeting her grandfather (José Ángel Egido), who gifts her an envelope of money, as if to assuage her of her troubles and to bypass the need for a scholarship. Yet Garcia’s stance and assurance of deflecting the money and only inquiring for answers further the generational divide of the old wanting to move on and forget and Marina’s desires for concrete answers.
Garcia is also tasked with a harrowing, phenomenal climax in which she portrays her mother in a dream sequence back in 1983. It’s a surreal moment that is sure to provoke conversation, yet shows Simón’s ability to draw a linear throughline of how much our parents’ actions reverberate and impact our current present.
Romería comes at a point where many millennial filmmakers are revisiting their childhood pasts as both a coming-of-age narrative and an understanding of their parents. Charlotte Wells’ Aftersun (2022) was a magnificent achievement in the self-actualization of one’s past through the grainy camcorder lens and the dissociation we have with our memories.
Carla Simón is not mining new territory or uncovering profound truths that aren’t specific to her, yet the manner in which she applies a painterly and delicate approach provides more nuance and depth. The emotional payoffs are not grandiose or directed in a manner to heighten drama; Romeria is far more reserved, to a fault, which can be off-putting and languid in pacing, yet the honesty and patience speak loudly by the end.
Review Courtesy of Amritpal Rai
Feature Image Credit to Janus Films